


Casa Familia

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Margaritas, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-26
Updated: 2007-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire introduces her new man to her parents.  Also, there are margaritas.  LOTS of margaritas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casa Familia

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://hymenchan.livejournal.com/profile)[**hymenchan**](http://hymenchan.livejournal.com/)'s "Meet the Parents" challenge. It's the product of many airports, exhaustion, and sleep deprivation, so you _know_ it's good. ^_~

Noah Bennet hates Mexican food.

He has always hated Mexican food.

Living in California and Texas, this was sometimes quite the problem.

But Claire had insisted, saying her new beau was from New York City, and really needed to experience good Latino cuisine.

Somehow he doubted “good Latino cuisine” had anything to do with piñatas and old Spanish movie posters as wallpaper and what seemed to be a life sized sculpture of a donkey made out of old Mexican Coke bottles. Or flavored margaritas the size of one’s head.

Not that he was complaining about the margaritas. Although the prickly pear flavored one he had chosen was a rather emasculating shade of pink.

He took three or four deep drinks. It wouldn’t do to look anything less than perfectly imposing when first meeting the man who was taking his daughter away.

Where was Claire, anyway? They’d already been sitting there for twenty minutes, him brooding and Sandra going through the chips and salsa (and her own frozen drink) at an alarming rate.

Bennet polished off the margarita, wincing a little at the brainfreeze. The waitress came by and offered him another, and he accepted, opting for a less girly color this time.

If Claire and her mystery man didn’t get here soon, he’d have a pretty respectable buzz going on. He couldn’t decide whether it would be preferable to be entirely sober for this occasion or not.

Then his margarita arrived, and he decided he didn’t care.

Then Claire arrived, a tall, dark man following her, and he decided he should’ve brought his gun.

He flew into action, diving across the gaudy tile table and throwing his arms protectively around his daughter. She squeaked in protest as the man behind her lifted his hand in reflex.

“Sy-Gabriel, don’t! Dad, _get off me!_ ”

“Noah, what on earth?!”

Sylar started to drop his hand, then thought better of it, holding it out to Bennet. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve heard so much about you.” The look in his eyes was dangerous, just _daring_ Bennet to say something.

He looked so much better drugged and unconscious on a lab table, Noah thought. Reluctantly, he let go of his daughter, taking the offered hand and doing his very best to crush every single bone in the man’s hand while appearing nonchalant.

Unfortunately, Sylar seemed to be playing the same game. And even more unfortunately, Sylar was winning.

“I wish I could say the same,” Noah gritted, “Mister…”

“Oh, you can call me Gabriel,” Sylar beamed, giving Bennet’s hand one last hard squeeze.

Bennet wrapped his injured hand around his margarita, and sidled back into his seat, never turning his back on Sylar.

Gabriel. Right.

That Ruger P345 he had stashed in the hall closet would probably have felt _really_ good in his hand right about now. His index finger twitched just thinking about it.

“Well, I am just so happy to meet you, Gabriel!” Sandra bubbled. “Claire has been so excited about you coming to meet us.”

He laughed. “I’m excited to be here, Mrs. Bennet. Your daughter is a very special young woman.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” she smiled, obviously charmed. “And don’t give me any of that ‘Mrs.’ business. Please, call me Sandra.”

Noah almost choked on his drink. He whispered harshly in her ear. “Sandy! He tried to _kill_ you!”

“Well,” she said indignantly, “I don’t remember that at all.” She turned a pointed gaze on her husband and whispered just as roughly, “Do I, Noah?”

She did have a point.

He turned his attention back to his drink, which was now sadly empty.

“Are you folks ready to order?”

At least something was going right.

He went last, ordering enchiladas or chimichangas or some damn thing that was beans and rice in tortillas. And another margarita, of course. “Make it a big one this time,” he demanded.

Moments later, he was served what appeared to be a medium-sized goldfish bowl, liberally decorated with salt, little paper umbrellas, and what seemed to be a set of small plastic monkeys.

Beautiful. _Exactly_ the kind of masculine image he wanted to convey.

“Goodness gracious, look at the size of that,” Sandra gaped as he set about removing the hideous garnishes. “We’re gonna have to carry you out of here.”

Claire sighed, “Geez, Dad. Overkill, much?”

“I obviously don’t control your decisions,” he said matter-of-factly, taking a long pull from his straw. “So don’t criticize mine.”

Awkward would be a pretty good word to describe the ensuing long pause.

“So, Claire,” Sandra began, ever the gracious hostess, “how did you and Gabriel meet?”

“Uh,” Claire stuttered, and things were set to reach new levels of uncomfortable until Sylar cut in.

“At school. I’m finishing up my doctorate, and…”

“In what? Neurology?” Bennet interrupted, pretty pleased at scoring such an awesome burn.

Sylar smiled tightly, not rising to the bait. “Eastern philosophy, actually.”

“Ooh, how interesting!” Sandra cooed. She was absolutely fawning over him.

If the room wasn’t the slightest bit fuzzy, Noah would have been very angry about that.

“Not really,” Sylar smiled, dropping his eyes in the perfect imitation of shyness. “Well, not to most people. But Claire is definitely not most people.” He put his hand on Claire’s knee and she smiled like a kid on Christmas, and fuzzy room or no, Noah was starting to see a little red.

Sandra was delighted, beaming almost as brightly as her daughter. “I don’t know why you felt like you had to keep him a secret, sweetheart. He’s absolutely wonderful.”

Noah felt like gagging. Was Sylar actually blushing at that?

“Well, I didn’t want you guys to freak out,” Claire said, looking directly at her father. “You know, because of…”

“The age difference,” Sylar finished for her. “She was really nervous about how you would react.”

Age. Of course. Homicidal tendencies and attempted murders be damned. Noah’s reaction was to have another drink.

Sandra just laughed. “Honey, when we got Claire she was already practically a grown-up. Lord knows how old she is now. She’s always been so mature for her age.” She took Sylar’s hand and patted it affectionately. “So it’ll take more than a few years to freak us out. Well, me, at least.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Claire sighed.

“So, Mrs. – Sandra,” Sylar caught himself, “You still have that fluffy little dog?”

“Mr. Muggles?” she replied, a little confused, “Well, of course I do. But how did…?”

“I told him!” Claire interjected, eyes wide, “All about his best in breed ribbons, and his regional championships…”

Sandra’s eyes lit up, eagerly taking the opportunity to regale a new listener with tales of Mr. Muggles’s achievements. Sylar, for his part, seemed similarly engaged in the conversation, listening attentively and enthusiastically declaring the superiority of Pomeranians as a breed.

Claire took the opportunity to talk to her dad at the other end of the table.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re certainly behaving yourself.”

“My daughter is dating a super-powered serial killer; the very one I tried _for years_ to protect her from, and I have to sit in this garish theme restaurant, eating food that I hate and pretending that everything is normal. Given the circumstances, I’d say I’m doing very well.” He punctuated the speech by draining the last of his margarita.

The waitress chose that exact moment to bring their plates. She smiled widely, holding her hand out for the empty glass. “Can I get you another, sir?”

Noah smiled back, “You do, and I just might marry you.” She laughed flirtatiously, and sauntered away, just in time to miss Sandra thwacking his arm.

“Thank you so much, husband of mine.” She sassed, a little tipsy herself. “It’s so nice to know how much you enjoy my company.”

“I’m enjoying your company, Mrs. Bennet,” Sylar chimed from the other side of the table. He looked significantly at Noah, raising one dark eyebrow just slightly. “I mean, _Sandra_.”

“Thank you, Gabriel,” she took his hand again. “It’s nice to know _someone_ appreciates me.”

And maybe ordering another drink was a mistake, because it was suddenly very hard for Bennet to resist sticking his tongue out at a murderer.

His daughter’s boyfriend.

Nope, he still wanted another drink. And then there it was.

Things could have been worse, really.

Dinner itself passed mostly in silence, interrupted once by Sylar quietly excusing himself (“Don’t kill anyone on the way to the can,” Bennet had mumbled, earning him another smack on the arm from his wife and a chastising “Noah, what’s gotten into you?” He had pointed casually at the margarita.) and returning a few moments later.

Sylar yawned theatrically as the busboy cleared the table. “ Well, it has been a real pleasure, but I am exhausted. Claire, do you mind leaving early? This jet lag is killing me.” She smiled and nodded, and his hand stroked her thigh absently.

Noah was rather sharply reminded that this man was sleeping with his daughter. Not just sleeping, horrifically enough, but likely having _sex_ with her.

It was, perhaps, fortunate that his limbs weren’t quite obeying him as quickly as he would have liked.

On the other hand, fuck it. More tequila. More tequila, and less thinking about Claire having sex.

Yes, much less of that.

Or just more tequila.

Sandra was being the mother hen again. “You poor things, you must’ve been traveling all day.”

“Pretty much,” Claire agreed, twining her fingers together with Sylar’s. “Do you guys mind us cutting out?”

“Not at all, sweetie, we’ll take care of this here, don’t worry.” Sandra pushed her chair back, leaning over the table to give Claire a goodbye kiss on the cheek. Sylar held out his hand for her to shake, and she practically pulled him over the table to give him a hug.

Noah remained seated, glaring at the display. As much as he hated to admit it, it seemed like Sylar was going to be a permanent fixture from now on. The man obviously cared about Claire, and she was just as obviously smitten, and Sandra just loved him to little pieces…

He was fine with it, for now. But he would have to investigate alternative means of coping in the future. His liver wouldn’t be able to keep up with this kind of punishment.

Claire threw her arms around his neck, snapping him out of his reverie. “Bye, Dad!” She kissed his cheek and bent down to whisper in his ear, “Thanks for not making a scene.”

“You’re welcome, Claire-bear,” he mumbled, hugging her back. “It’s… just going to take some getting used to.”

“I know,” she smiled. “Thanks again.”

“Mr. Bennet,” Sylar said, shaking his hand, “It was very nice to meet you.”

The handshake stayed a handshake, and didn’t devolve into some kind of medieval grappling maneuver.

“Likewise, Gabriel,” he replied, pulling the man closer in what appeared to be a fatherly gesture of affection. “If you hurt her, you sick son of a bitch, I will hunt you down myself, and you _know_ I know how to take you down.”

Sylar patted him on the back, “I’d like to see you try, old man. Enjoy your dessert.”

Bennet pulled back, sitting down once again as Sylar wrapped a protective arm around Claire’s waist, guiding her to the door.

Dessert? What the hell was that about?

He felt a sudden weight on his head, as a very large, very gaudy sombrero was dropped on him. Rhythmic clapping filled the dining room, and a veritable conga line of servers descended on the table, presenting him with a small chocolate sundae and entreating the rest of the patrons to join them in singing an _intensely_ annoying birthday song.

Sandra was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe, tears rolling down her face, as she slapped the table. Noah’s eyes shot to the door and sure enough, Sylar and Claire had stuck around; her face buried in his chest, as she laughed almost as hard as her mother was.

At the servers’ extreme insistence, Bennet blew out the little blue candle in the dessert, and the restaurant erupted in applause.

Sylar just raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turned up in an infuriating smirk of triumph.

Claire’s boyfriend or not, that fucker was _dead._  



End file.
